The Blue Flamingo
by astonvanquish
Summary: An exploration of the themes present in F. Scott Fitzgerald's 'The Great Gatsby.'


The Blue Flamingo

The city awoke that morning, finding itself blanketed beneath the hazy veil of light cascading down from the morning sun. Joe Cleaver also awoke that morning, only finding himself held down by a much more substantial weight; he was performing his usual morning routine of carrying large wooden crates containing soda down to The Blue Flamingo. It had never become easier carrying the same boxes every day for the past year and the heat of the rising sun was already soaking the back of his clean white shirt. He felt a small bead slowly running down his arm only to hit the splintered wood at the end of his lean fingers, made nimble by the nightly barrage of orders for his famous Virgin Mojito.

Routine had conditioned him into walking blindly, rarely peering from behind his load so it came as no surprise when his foot caught the edge of a loose brick bringing him down to earth and awaking him from his complacent reverie.Joe lurched suddenly as the contents of his load threatened to slip out of his now moist grasp, and he noted with relief that of the dozens of fragile glass bottles he carried only one had escaped him. His sharp brown eyes followed the bottle as it slowly reeled along the pavement and towards the gutter. As his out-stretched hand found the bottle his eyes found a glimmer of red from above him.

Focusing his gaze fully, he saw that the red belonged to a long, flowing dress, worn by the most beautiful woman Joe had ever seen. Her face held an almost ethereal beauty; her sloe-eyes seemed to radiate an inner serenity Joe could only dream of. Her lips, lightly parted, were full and rouged, seemingly on the verge of smiling, and across her lightly tanned legs were plastered the words 'Slow Dance'. He marvelled at how he could possibly have missed this poster, as upon closer inspection the corners had begun to fade and curl and wondered as to why he had not seen this poster anywhere else: perhaps the picture had failed to draw in the audiences.

He shrugged off the woman's presence with an attempt at indifference but Joe knew her smile would remain seared in his mind all through the evening.

A thick cloud of cigarette smoke hung over the bar, and Joe coughed as he worked, fixing cocktails for the crowd clamouring before him. The bar was, as always, noisy and pulsing with energy. The scent of a smoky bar after ten in the evening is nauseating but Joe had grown accustomed to this scent and he barely noticed as it passed through his lungs; instead he maintained a focus on filling glasses, crushing ice and slicing lime. As the hand of the clock above him fell upon ten-thirty, the atmosphere changed. It was now somewhat electric: the hubbub fell for a moment and a whisper flowed through the crowd like a zephyr: his ears could only distinguish the name _Leola de Rosa_. His eyes were compelled to follow the other startled faces, as his gaze slowly fell upon the dark doorway which was unusually illuminated by this seemingly revered presence.

When she stepped into the dappled light, Joe felt his lower lip fall. The glass he was holding slipped from his hands, but he seemed not to notice as the sodden lime and fruit juices seeped into his shoes. All he could see was this woman before him.

The woman from the poster.

She walked into the bar fully and immediately disappeared from Joe's sight as the throng which had previously clung like parasites to the bar now surrounded her, fawning sycophantically. Emerging, with some obvious difficulty, she ordered a Citrus Cola flapping away any onlookers and retreated into the relative safety of the nearest empty booth. Her admirers were undeterred and so she sat smiling vaguely but the smile never removed the sadness Joe could plainly see in her eyes or dispersed the air of isolation she carried about her. His eyes regularly flicked back and forth, hoping to catch her glance and offer a kind smile, which on its return would alleviate her sorrow, but she seemed focussed only on draining and rapidly refilling her glass. Worry was installed into Joe as the reflection of the light bounced off a small hipflask and into his wary eyes as she repeatedly slipped shots into her cocktail glass.

"Apparently she's a movie star," drawled a tired Joe, somehow more exhausted than usual.

"Some movie star," scoffed a regular, slouched over his favoured bar stool. "Her first (and last might I add) movie bombed on its release. No wonder she's knocking them back over there."

"I gotta admit the only time I've seen her smile was on that poster on Twelfth Ave. this morning." Joe mused pensively.

"Well I sure wouldn't be smiling in her shoes. Not one soul in Hollywood would wanna touch her now." Joe grunted knowingly in response. The regular blathered on. "I read somewhere in _The New York Daily_ that she's become a raging alcoholic hot on the heels of her dismissal."

The drained barkeep glanced over to de Rosa's booth: she seemed to be rummaging through her sequinned bag until her hand seemingly found what she was looking for. Joe again saw a metallic glimmer but thought nothing of it as he hung on the regular's words.

"That's just young girls ain't it pal? They all want their piece of the pie and spend their lives in a daydream until they fall from on high and into the gutter below."

Joe nodded attentively as he relinquished the man of his glass and readily filled its place with another. He felt the fading joy and fleeting ecstasy of seeing her in the flesh, whilst acknowledging sadly the fact that he would never have her. He shrugged his shoulders to lighten his thoughts and continued to serve.

Joe knew that he would always remember this night. It would be imprinted in his memory as surely and as vividly as had the serene image of Leola's face been earlier that day. The gossiping man continued unheard by the now distracted bartender as the air was suddenly rent in two by an ear-splitting shot. A deathly silence fell over The Blue Flamingo, a sound previously unknown in the popular club, as a flurry of young women tore screaming from the ladies restroom, their faces distorted with hysteria as two or three collapsed into the arms of their bewildered escorts. One simply fainted, her vanilla skin a ghostly pale, the pallor of sick clay, under the harsh lights and the now-garish hue of her turquoise gown.

A disconcerting chill fell over the now-deserted counter of the bar. The ice in his hands was now nothing to the sharp coldness in the pit of his stomach. Joe looked blankly over to Leola de Rosa's booth.

It was empty.


End file.
